Chairs
by Whitefang333
Summary: Short story about love and the decision that came with it.


Disclaimer: All of the characters belong to Dreamworks and Cressita Cowell.

AN: This is the English translation of my story in Polish. I hope this story will make you think, just as it made me.

* * *

The chair had been squeaking for five years already. She did not do anything to repair it, even though it required only a few nails, a few hits with hammer and a good old faith that "it was going to be all right".

She could have done it by herself. However, it was one of her husband's tasks**,** and she had never deprived him of the opportunity to show off with the very stereotypical men skills which, without a doubt, included whacking items with a hammer.

In Berk, borders between what women should know how to do was vague. When you have to know how to sew, prepare the food, frame the skins, farm and, in addition kill the dragons in your spare time, there was no more separation between men and women. Instead, there was a companion, soldier, this person nearby, always ready to sacrifice his life for you and this restorative feeling that you would do exactly for him or her.

Everybody fought for the same reason: to survive and still be able to look at what was close and beloved before that be swept away by the smoke of fire and the warmth of the flame.

They all fought for the same thing. But it had changed not so long ago. They did not have to, anymore, since that boy had ended the War. Dragons from the sworn enemy became allies and, for some, friends.

From time to time, she saw them as they flew with people on their back, hunting or training. She did not care about it. The only thing that existed was this porch on which she spent her days knitting yet another sweater from the sheep's wool.

And, also, taking care of her husband, who was not able to take care of himself anymore. He used to be a great warrior, proud and strong. She loved him not for the strength or the scars, but for his pride and how he shackled it down in her embrace, only for her.

The night before it happened was not any different. He lay with his head on her breasts and glided his fingers over them. He looked with absent eyes at his sword, lying in the corner with the shield by it and talked. Those words, so full of feelings, anxiety, fear and yearning always made her heart beat faster and wanted to make him happy. She was a proud woman, but by his side, she also was giving all of herself. Catching his palm, she was lifting it and tying it to her cheek. He, seeing her look, always reacted with a kiss. First delicate, later stronger, until they lost all thoughts and found themselves again after the blinding explosion of pleasure and closeness.

He always wanted to die in battle.

Just like their faith dictated, in gory and splendour. With your warriors around you.

A few years ago, he had lost this possibility. The dragon attacked suddenly, materialising from the darkness like an evil spirit. Instead of taking his life, it hit his helmet and continued running to join another fight.

He had never smiled or laughed after that. This hit took away his thoughts and skills. Now, he sat near her, still in his chair, identical to hers, the throne for his crippled mind and unable body. He always wore his best clothes, always washed and scented, and in his chainmail his sword and faithful shield leaning against the wooden wall of their house, right by him. Just within an arm reach.

He looked with his head down at the same point in space and swallowed slowly what was given to him. She never complained that she had to wash him, give him drink, feed or change his diapers like a little baby. Even when she squeezed his palm at night, she was alone in this gesture.

She dressed him in those clothes he loved, all connected with battle, and sat him down every morning at the same chair. He was still the same proud warrior, even now. People bowed, and shouted their greetings and wished fast recovery. She had many talks that she should stop believing that he would return. That he was pretty much dead now.

She never believed it, she did not want to. Sometimes it appeared to her that she could see the spark in his eyes, the same that he always had when leaving for another expedition. She always saw it whenever a dragon appeared nearby.

Shortly, after the Chieftain's son had initiated the peace, in front of her porch a dragon, its rider on its back, landed. The rider got off and walked away from the beast, heading to the carpenter's house close by.

That was when her man, after so many years, reacted. With an automatic movement, his hand seized the sword. She did not see it, busy sewing. When he rose from his chair, she was speechless. Slowly, so slowly, with weak steps he moved into the dragon's direction. She did not say anything, covering her mouth and clenching teeth not to stop him.

The dragon started to hiss, but her man did not stop his trek. He did not take his faithful shield because he did not need it. She watched at his still massive back with tears in her eyes. Whether from happiness or from despair, she could not tell.

With a wheezing sound as a battle cry, he raised his weapon that glistened like a blade of destiny.

* * *

Now she was sitting in her chair. Alone, on her porch, in front of the house.

They left her alone quickly after this happened. Dragons were dangerous, and it was treated as accident. Not everybody believed it, such as Stoick. He asked her, without any witnesses, what really happened. And she told him, everything, truthfully. The Chieftain did not say anything, only placed his hand on her shoulder, and left.

Despite the fact that a tear dribbled on her cheek sometimes, she was happy. It was a gift from the gods, a gift for him.

She would wait for her sign now, her own occasion to prove her worth and join him in Valhalla.

Life went forward and everything was fine.

Just as it should be.


End file.
